


Nightmare

by imaginary_writer



Series: Aftermath [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Angst, Character Study, Gen, I mean seriously?, I still don't know what should I tag, do you people even read the tags?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:54:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_writer/pseuds/imaginary_writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Your nightmares follow you like a shadow, forever. ” <br/>― Aleksandar Hemon, The Lazarus Project</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after Sherlock bbc's The Great Fall.
> 
> Un-beta-d and un-Brit-picked. So all faults is no one but my own. Please notify me if you see any. Also, any criticism is always welcome.
> 
> I don't own the characters, just an amateur playing with words. No profit comes from this work, /obviously/.

In the silence of the night, his breathing was too loud, his mind disoriented, his skin slicked with sweat, and his limbs tangled between the sheets. He blinked a few times, allowing his eyes to adjust.

Inhale.

One.

Two.

Three.

Exhale.

Sometimes he dreamt about Afghanistan, of falling soldiers he couldn’t save. Sometimes the shot that ended his career haunted his dreams. His shoulder would throb unkindly then.

Sometimes he dreamt of a tall man in a long Belstaff overcoat with unruly raven curl. They were running, him always tailing behind the swirl of coat, filled with adrenaline and purpose once again. And then suddenly, the scene changed. He was standing there, hand outstretched, as if he could close the distance between them.

_“Goodbye, John.”_

That was the worst.

He would wake up, throat dried, hearing his voice hoarse from screaming his name.

There were times when Afghanistan would bleed together with his beloved London, his fallen comrade is the man that was his best friend.

He got up from his bed, padding to the kitchen. The day hadn’t even started, but he knew sleep wouldn’t come easily. Even in his wake, his nightmare would follow him anyway, a steady companion in the shadows, ready to haunt him again once he rested his head on a pillow. So really, why bother?


End file.
